Markelov’s guests were still asleep when a messenger with a letter
came to him from his sister, Madame Sipiagina. In this letter Valentina
Mihailovna spoke about various little domestic details, asked him to
return a book he had borrowed, and added, by the way, in a postscript,
the very “amusing” piece of news that his old flame Mariana was in love
with the tutor Nejdanov and he with her. This was not merely gossip, but
she, Valentina Mihailovna, had seen with her own eyes and heard with her
own ears. Markelov’s face grew blacker than night, but he did not utter
a word. He ordered the book to be returned, and when he caught sight of
Nejdanov coming downstairs, greeted him just as usual and did not even
forget to give him the promised packet of Kisliakov’s letters. He did
not stay with him however, but went out to see to the farm.
Nejdanov returned to his own room and glanced through the letters.
The young propagandist spoke mostly about himself, about his unsparing
activity. According to him, during the last month, he had been in
no less than eleven provinces, nine towns, twenty-nine villages,
fifty-three hamlets, one farmhouse, and seven factories. Sixteen nights
he had slept in hay-lofts, one in a stable, another even in a cow-shed
(here he wrote, in parenthesis, that fleas did not worry him); he
had wheedled himself into mud-huts, workmen’s barracks, had preached,
taught, distributed pamphlets, and collected information; some things he
had made a note of on the spot; others he carried in his memory by the
very latest method of mnemonics. He had written fourteen long letters,
twenty-eight shorter ones, and eighteen notes, four of which were
written in pencil, one in blood, and another in soot and water. All
this he had managed to do because he had learned how to divide his time
systematically, according to the examples set by men such as Quintin
Johnson, Karrelius, Sverlitskov, and other writers and statisticians.
Then he went on to talk of himself again, of his guiding star, saying
how he had supplemented Fourier’s passions by being the first to
discover the “fundaments, the root principle,” and how he would not
go out of this world without leaving some trace behind him; how he was
filled with wonder that he, a youth of twenty-four, should have solved
all the problems of life and science; that he would turn the whole of
Russia up-side-down, that he would “shake her up!” “Dixi!!” he added at
the end of the paragraph. This word “Dixi” appeared very frequently in
Kisliakov’s letters, and always with a double exclamation mark. In one
of the letters there were some verses with a socialist tendency, written
to a certain young lady, beginning with the words—
Love not me, but the idea!
Nejdanov marvelled inwardly, not so much at Kisliakov’s conceit, as at
Markelov’s honest simplicity. “Bother aestheticism! Mr. Kisliakov may be
even useful,” he thought to himself instantly.
The three friends gathered together for tea in the dining-room, but
last night’s conversation was not renewed between them. Not one of them
wished to talk, but Solomin was the only one who sat silent peacefully.
Both Nejdanov and Markelov seemed inwardly agitated. After tea they
set out for the town. Markelov’s old servant, who was sitting on the
doorstep, accompanied his former master with his habitual dejected
glance.
The merchant Golushkin, with whom it was necessary to acquaint
Nejdanov, was the son of a wealthy merchant in drugs, an Old Believer,
of the Thedosian sect. He had not increased the fortune left to him
by his father, being, as the saying goes, a _joueur_, an Epicurean in
the Russian fashion, with absolutely no business abilities. He was
a man of forty, rather stout and ugly, pock-marked, with small eyes
like a pig’s. He spoke hurriedly, swallowing his words as it were,
gesticulated with his hands, threw his legs about and went into roars
of laughter at everything. On the whole, he gave one the impression of
being a stupid, spoiled, conceited bounder. He considered himself a
man of culture because he dressed in the German fashion, kept an open
house (though it was not overly clean), frequented the theatre, and
had many protégées among variety actresses, with whom he conversed in
some extraordinary jargon meant to be French. His principal passion was
a thirst for popularity. “Let the name of Golushkin thunder through
the world! As once Suvorov or Potyomkin, then why not now Kapiton
Golushkin?” It was this very passion, conquering even his innate
meanness, which had thrown him, as he himself expressed it not without
a touch of pride, “into the arms of the opposition” (formerly he used
to say “position,” but had learned better since then) and brought
him in contact with the nihilists. He gave expression to the most
extreme views, scoffed at his own Old Believer’s faith, ate meat in
Lent, played cards, and drank champagne like water. He never got into
difficulties, because he said, “Wherever necessary, I have bribed the
authorities. All holes are stitched up, all mouths are closed, all ears
are stopped.”
He was a widower without children. His sister’s sons fawned around him
continuously, but he called them a lot of ignorant louts, barbarians,
and would hardly look at them. He lived in a large, stone house, kept in
rather a slovenly manner. Some of the rooms were furnished with foreign
furniture, others contained nothing but a few painted wooden chairs and
a couch covered with American cloth. There were pictures everywhere of
an indifferent variety. Fiery landscapes, purple seascapes, fat naked
women with pink-coloured knees and elbows, and “The Kiss” by Moller. In
spite of the fact that Golushkin had no family, there were a great many
menials and hangers-on collected under his roof. He did not receive them
from any feeling of generosity, but simply from a desire to be popular
and to have someone at his beck and call. “My clients,” he used to say
when he wished to throw dust in one’s eyes. He read very little, but had
an excellent memory for learned expressions.
The young people found Golushkin in his study, where he was sitting
comfortably wrapped up in a long dressing-gown, with a cigar between his
lips, pretending to be reading a newspaper. On their entrance he
jumped up, rushed up to them, went red in the face, shouted for some
refreshments to be brought quickly, asked them some questions, laughed
for no reason in particular, and all this in one breath. He knew
Markelov and Solomin, but had not yet met Nejdanov. On hearing that the
latter was a student, he broke into another laugh, pressed his hand a
second time, exclaiming:
“Splendid! Splendid! We are gathering forces! Learning is light,
ignorance is darkness—I had a wretched education myself, but I
understand things; that’s how I’ve got on!”
It seemed to Nejdanov that Golushkin was shy and embarrassed—and
indeed it really was so. “Take care, brother Kapiton! Mind what you
are about!” was his first thought on meeting a new person. He soon
recovered himself however, and began in the same hurried, lisping,
confused tone of voice, talking about Vassily Nikolaevitch, about his
temperament, about the necessity of pro-pa-ganda (he knew this word
quite well, but articulated it slowly), saying that he, Golushkin,
had discovered a certain promising young chap, that the time had now
come, that the time was now ripe for... for the lancet (at this word he
glanced at Markelov, but the latter did not stir). He then turned to
Nejdanov and began speaking of himself in no less glowing terms than
the distinguished correspondent Kisliakov, saying that he had long
ago ceased being a fool, that he fully recognised the rights of the
proletariat (he remembered this word splendidly), that although he had
actually given up commerce and taken to banking instead with a view to
increasing his capital, yet only so that this same capital could at any
given moment be called upon for the use... for the use of the cause,
that is to say, for the use of the people, and that he, Golushkin, in
reality, despised wealth! At this point a servant entered with some
refreshment; Golushkin cleared his throat significantly, asked if they
would not partake of something, and was the first to gulp down a glass
of strong pepper-brandy. The guests partook of refreshments. Golushkin
thrust huge pieces of caviar into his mouth and drank incessantly,
saying every now and again, “Come, gentlemen, come, some splendid
Macon, please!” Turning to Nejdanov, he began asking him where he
had come from, where he was staying and for how long, and on hearing
that he was staying at Sipiagin’s, exclaimed: “I know this gentleman!
Nothing in him whatever!” and instantly began abusing all the
landowners in the province because, he said, not only were they void of
public spirit, but they did not even understand their own interests.
But, strange to say, in spite of his being so abusive, his eyes wandered
about uneasily. Nejdanov could not make him out at all, and wondered
what possible use he could be to them. Solomin was silent as usual and
Markelov wore such a gloomy expression that Nejdanov could not help
asking what was the matter with him. Markelov declared that it was
nothing in a tone in which people commonly let you understand that there
is something wrong, but that it does not concern you. Golushkin again
started abusing someone or other and then went on to praise the new
generation. “Such clever chaps they are nowadays! Clever chaps!” Solomin
interrupted him by asking about the hopeful young man whom he had
mentioned and where he had discovered him. Golushkin laughed, repeating
once or twice, “Just wait, you will see! You will see!” and began
questioning him about his factory and its “rogue” of an owner, to
which Solomin replied in monosyllables. Then Golushkin poured them all
champagne, and bending over to Nejdanov, whispered in his ear, “To the
republic!” and drank off his glass at a gulp. Nejdanov merely put
his lips to the glass; Solomin said that he did not take wine in the
morning; and Markelov angrily and resolutely drank his glass to the last
drop. He was torn by impatience. “Here we are coolly wasting our time
and not tackling the real matter in hand.” He struck a blow on the
table, exclaiming severely, “Gentlemen!” and began to speak.
But at this moment there entered a sleek, consumptive-looking man with a
long neck, in a merchant’s coat of nankeen, and arms outstretched like
a bird. He bowed to the whole company and, approaching Golushkin,
communicated something to him in a whisper.
“In a minute! In a minute!” the latter exclaimed, hurriedly.
“Gentlemen,” he added, “I must ask you to excuse me. Vasia, my clerk,
has just told me of such a little piece of news” (Golushkin expressed
himself thus purposely by way of a joke) “which absolutely necessitates
my leaving you for awhile. But I hope, gentlemen, that you will come and
have dinner with me at three o’clock. Then we shall be more free!”
Neither Solomin nor Nejdanov knew what to say, but Markelov replied
instantly, with that same severity in his face and voice:
“Of course we will come.”
“Thanks very much,” Golushkin said hastily, and bending down to
Markelov, added, “I will give a thousand roubles for the cause in any
case.... Don’t be afraid of that!”
And so saying, he waved his right hand three times, with the thumb and
little finger sticking out. “You may rely on me!” he added.
He accompanied his guests to the door, shouting, “I shall expect you at
three!”
“Very well,” Markelov was the only one to reply.
“Gentlemen!” Solomin exclaimed as soon as they found themselves in the
street, “I am going to take a cab and go straight back to the factory.
What can we do here until dinnertime? A sheer waste of time, kicking our
heels about, and I am afraid our worthy merchant is like the well-known
goat, neither good for milk nor for wool.”
“The wool is there right enough,” Markelov observed gloomily. “He
promised to give us some money. Don’t you like him? Unfortunately, we
can’t pick and choose. People do not run after us exactly.”
“I am not fastidious,” Solomin said calmly. “I merely thought that
my presence would not do much good. However,” he added, glancing at
Nejdanov with a smile, “I will stay if you like. Even death is bearable
in good company.”
Markelov raised his head.
“Supposing we go into the public garden. The weather is lovely. We can
sit and look at the people.”
“Come along.”
They moved on; Markelov and Solomin in front, Nejdanov in the rear.